


Delivering the Goods

by spikesgirl58



Series: Working Stiffs [15]
Category: Man from Uncle - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 09:27:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was just the deilvery boy until he noticed a very special delivery for Mr. Kuryakin and played a hunch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Delivering the Goods

Let me just go on record to say that my job is the worst one ever – it’s boring, it’s dull and it’s stupid, but it’s also the only thing keeping me out of the draft, so I shut up and do it.  I hate delivering mail.  It’s a chick job, not something for a cool guy like me.  I should be one of those Section Two agents.  I’m cool like them.  Then maybe the chicks would dig me like that do those old farts, like Mr. S.  Hell, he’s almost thirty.  Don’t those girly girlies know that a man’s sexual prowess peaks at eighteen?  He’s practically over the hill by now.  And if you listen to them squeal when Mr. K walks by…well, he is pretty cool with that anti establishment attitude and hair and all.  But still, he’s getting up there too.  Beside, he’s always got his nose too planted in a book or a file to notice girls.  One would have to come up and bite him for him to notice.  Stupid, throwing it away like that when he could be lovin’ the lovin,’ as we used to say on campus.

Anyhow, back to my boring, dull, stupid, job.  It isn’t always **that** boring, dull or stupid, just usually.  I pick up the mail – they don’t even trust me to sort it yet.  How smart do you have to be to sort mail?  I mean, you just put it where it goes and if it comes in with those funny squiggles on it, you give it to Mr. K.  It’s that weird silly relic writing or something like that.  All I wonder is how we can consider the Russians a real threat and they can’t even write the alphabet right – who makes their ‘N’s and ‘R’s backward on purpose?  What was I saying?  Oh yeah…

So, Old Man Dubois, he’s going on and about this and that, crabbing about this and that.  He’s been with UNCLE for years now and you’d think UNCLE was the cause of the world’s woes.  Maybe they are, but I don’t think so.  See, he wanted his kid to come into the organization, but UNCLE wouldn’t have him.  Not that I blame UNCLE.  I’ve met Dubois’s kid and he’s scary mean, just like his old man.  The Old Man, though, he’s smart too.  He never says anything to anyone who matters.  He’ll bitch to me because no one would ever listen to me, but he’s all sunshine and peace signs when the Establishment comes snooping around.  Two-faced old bastard!

Anyhow, so I’ ve loaded up the cart and I see all these packages sort of spread around and go to grab one.  Old Man Dubois comes unglued, starts screaming at me to do my job and leave him alone.    Yeah, okay, whatever, Daddy-o.

So,  I’m pushing my cart along, like I’m shopping at the world’s biggest grocery store and watching the girls – I love those tight skirts and the ones wearing those holsters – mmm, they’re candy to a guy like me and when they are walking away, I just want to take a big old bite out of them.  My cart’s all weighed down because they got both Mr. S and Mr. K on restricted duty.  See?  This just goes to prove how slow these two guys are getting.  Whenever those two get desk bound, which is more than I like because it always seems to triple my work load, The Old Fart, aka Mr. Waverly, gives them all these special projects and I end up paying for it.

I’ve got probably a dozen files, some research papers, plus their usual assortment of crap.  Why UNCLE won’t let these guys get their own mail at their own home pisses me off.   Security, my butt!  It’s just that they’re too lazy to be bothered to pick it up or something…

So, I get there and as usual, there’s no one there.  I don’t know why they even give these guys an office except to pile stuff in.  Mr. S.’s desk has a bunch of files already on it and Mr. K’s desk is stacked with books and a sort of small shipping box.  That sort of strikes me as weird because I didn’t deliver it and I usually handle everything that comes through the mail room.  Mr. K is funny.  He gets really whacked out if something’s in the middle of his desk like that.  He likes everything to go in his incoming box, so I move the box up there and start hauling files over to Mr. S’s desk.  He doesn’t care where you stack things, so I do his stuff first. 

I’d just dropped an armful when I hear someone clearing his throat.  Oops, my cart is in the middle of the doorway and I’d forgotten Mr. K is still on crutches.

“Sorry, man,” I mutter, giving the cart a push.  He could probably had squeezed by if he’d set his mind to it, but I’d just as soon not jack the guy around.  Agents aren’t known for their humor or patience.  What I don’t get is why he’s even here.  You can tell he feels like hell and looks ten times worse.  I’d be sucking it up in bed with those lovely nurses offering to give me rub downs and sponge baths.  Sweet.  Instead, Mr. K was rumbling around in a cast up to his thigh, his arm still wrapped and wearing this freaky eye patch that makes him look a little like a wayward pirate.

“Thank you, Troy.”  He gets himself down at his desk and takes a deep breath. 

I want to tell him that he looks like shit, but I figure the man must have a mirror.  He knows he looks like shit.  So I keep piling stuff on Mr. S’s desk until I’m done.  Then I start on his. 

“Looks like you got a letter from home,” I said, handing over one of those funny air mail envelopes.  Like usual, he looks at it for a long minute and then tucks it away into his shirt pocket.  He never reads them here.  “And that box came for you.  I don’t know from where.  I didn’t deliver it. It was here when I got here.”  I keep going about my task and then I realize the air’s gotten really still and Mr. K is just staring at that box.

“Did you move it?”

“Just to put it up in your incoming box.  I didn’t mess with it or anything.”

“Troy, you need to leave now.”  His voice has this funny edge to it, like he’s either super mad or super scared or something.

“I didn’t do anything!”  Damn, he was going to get me fired for moving a stupid box less than a foot.  I couldn’t believe this guy.  And I thought he was okay, even defended him to Dubois.

“Yes, you did; can’t you hear it?”  That’s when I hear the tick tick of a clock, except there are no clocks in the room.  Then it stops…

The next thing I know I’m on the floor with half the room piled on top of me.  No, I’m sorry, on top of Mr. K who’s on top of me.  At the last minute he grabbed me and dove behind Mr. S’s desk.  There are lights going on and off and I’m guessing alarms too, but I can’t hear them.

I feel Mr. K sort of move and that’s when I suddenly realize he’s probably saved my life and I sort of felt guilty about all the crap I was thinking about him a minute ago. 

People are suddenly all around us and I see Mr. S.  He looks angry at first and really scared.  Guess he’s worried that his Playboys were all blown all sky high.  He’s yelling stuff, but I can’t hear anything. The air is thick with smoke, dust and stuff I don’t want to think about.   It sort of hurts to think, so I don’t…

I wake up God knows how much later in Medical.  Somehow, the thought of a sponge bath right at the moment doesn’t do anything to revive me or Mr. Happy.  I try to sit up, but everything hurts.

“Take it easy, young man.”  I don’t recognize the voice, everything is still muffled, but I sure as hell recognize the Old Fart, Mr. Waverly, I mean.  What the hell is he doing here?   I’m tempted to pull the sheet up to my chin and hide.

“Hi,” I manage, wanting to kick myself for sounding like a little scared kid.

“Mr. Mills, isn’t it?”

“Troy, yeah, that’s me.”  I do manage to sit up this time.  “What happened?”

“That’s what we were hoping you could tell us.”  Mr. Waverly stood and walked closer to my bed, I’m guessing he knew I was having trouble still hearing stuff.  “I’m afraid Mr. Kuryakin is in no condition to answer any questions at the moment.”

“But he’s okay, isn’t he?”

“Oh, I dare say he will be once he wakes up.”  Mr. Waverly’s tone wasn’t fooling me.  “Mr. Mills, can you remember what transpired in his office.”

“Sure, I was delivering the mail.  He’d gotten this box.”

“Describe it please.”

“Oh, about so big, white, wrapped with brown cord.  It had a funny twist to it, I remember thinking. Anyhow, it was smack in the middle of his desk and Mr. K doesn’t like that.  He likes things in his in box, so I moved it and then delivered Mr. S’s stuff.  He came in and saw the box.  That’s when we heard the ticking.  Then it stopped.  It was a bomb, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was, but the question remains, how did it get here?’

“I don’t know, sir, not through the mail room or I would have delivered it.”  Something was nagging at me, but I couldn’t quite remember what.  Things were sort of all whacked out and weird, like the way they are when you smoke a really fine joint. 

The nurse comes in and says something to the Old Man.  He nods and walks out without even a word of good bye or good job or anything else.  The nurse, I guess she’s pretty, but I don’t really care at the moment.  Everything hurts, but she gives me a shot of something and I start feeling really good, choice.

That’s when Old Man Dubois walks in.  His mean little pig eyes are staring at me like I’m a juicy bone and he’s a junk yard dog.

“What did you tell them?” he almost yells, and then looks around to see if anyone heard him.

“About what?  I was just delivering the mail and the damn room blew up.  If that stupid Russian hadn’t been in the way, I’d have been out the door.”  I don’t know why I lied, but some instinct told me to.

“He was there?”

“Caught the blast head on, according to Mr. Waverly.”  He’d seen Waverly leaving my room and for some reason, that seemed to cheer Dubois right up.

“So he’s down here?  Is he hurt…bad?”

“Way Waverly was asking questions, I’d say he’s even lower, like down in the morgue.  Otherwise, the old man wouldn’t have been asking me the stuff he was.”  If my father heard me lie like this, he’d wash my mouth out.

“He’s…he’s dead?”  Dubois looked positively overjoyed and I sort of wanted to throw up.

“That’s what I got out of our talk.”

“Good boy, you just rest and get well.  When you’re ready, come back to the mail room and we’ll see about promoting you.”

He walked from the room with a bounce in his step and I felt around in the bed until I found the ‘call nurse’ button.  I don’t know how long I held it down before someone showed up.  I didn’t recognize her, but I didn’t care.

“I need to talk to Mr. Solo…it’s really important.”

Time sort of blurs for a minute and the next thing I know Mr. S is stand there, looking tired and stressed out.

“You needed to talk to me, Troy?”  His voice is soft, gentle like.  Like he’s afraid he’ll scare me or something.

“Yeah, but first, is Mr. K okay?”

“Illya?  He’s fine.  Woke up about half an hour ago and is already giving Nellie a bad time.  What did you need?”

“I think Old Man Dubois planted that bomb.  When I was in the mail room he was working on a bunch of packages that look just like it.  He’s really happy because he thinks the blast killed Mr. K.  I didn’t think about it until…”  That when I stopped because behind Mr. S stop old Man Dubois.  Guess he didn’t find Mr. K down in the morgue like I said and he came back.

“Henry, put the gun down.”  Mr. S’s voice was firm and no nonsense now.  I didn’t even know the old guy was packing.

“”Not until this is over, Solo.”  He was waving that gun around in a crazy fashion.

“Why kill Illya?  What did he ever do to you?”

“He’s the bomb expert, isn’t he?  Take him out and there’s no one else to defuse the bombs.”

“Bombs?”

“Three dozen scattered about the building by now.  All ready to take the organization to its knees.  I will have my revenge! I will have…”  I never did find out what else he wanted because that was when Mr. K shot him.  How anyone can walk that quiet in a cast is beyond me, but he did.  I was sort of happy about it, too.  He was all whacked black and blue, but I’ve never seen anyone so beautiful in all my life as him standing there with that gun.

“I…I love you, man!” I blurt without even realizing it.  Mr. K gives me this really weird look.

“Wonderful,” he mutters and then starts to drop like a rock.  Later I found out that Mr. K’s got a snootful of morphine and shouldn’t have even been able to get out of bed, much less make it to my room and hit a man square in the heart.

It seems that Old Man Dubois had concocted this great huge scheme to take down UNCLE from inside, all because they wouldn’t let that crazy ass kid of his into UNCLE.  They did something with him too, but UNCLE doesn’t talk about it and I'm not asking.  They’re a little embarrassed about not having seen the old guy for what he was.

My little brush with fame gained me all sorts of attention and I’m no longer the mail delivery boy.  I’m now a mail room clerk level 2!  My new boss is a whole lot better than Dubois and the job is still boring, dull and stupid and that’s fine with me.  I had a taste of life on the other side of the coin and I’m happy where I am now.  Anyone wanting to be a Section Two agent, why that’s just crazy talk.  And Mr. K and Mr. S, they’re the head loonies and they’re welcome to it.  After watching them and getting a taste of their lives, I’d rather die a bored, dull **old** man than even spend one more afternoon in their shoes and know my life could end at any second.  Excitement – you can have it.  Dull is looking better every day now.


End file.
